


Ficlets

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossover, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, I have a lot of Steve feels, M/M, Prompt Fic, Ridiculousness, Schmoop, Tumblr, a little bit o' snogging, and other stuff too, and retirement, some marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of not-really-related ficlets that I wrote from prompts on tumblr. I want to have them all in one spot and easy to find, so I'm archiving them.</p><p>Each can be read on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> None of these has been edited or betaed or Brit-picked.
> 
> This first one is in response to this prompt from ivyblossom: _Someone should write Sherlock thinking better when John is playing with his hair. :P_

“Oh my God, Sherlock. Come **here**.”

Sherlock ceases pacing and ranting for just long enough to throw a death-glare in John’s direction.

“Now,” John adds, in his I-am-Captain-Watson-and-this-is-an-order voice; the one not even Sherlock can disobey, _how does he do it?_

Sherlock stomps across the room and looms over John; just because he has to listen doesn’t mean he’s required to be gracious about it.

John points to the spot next to him on the sofa. “Sit.”

Sherlock sits.

John twists his body and does something that Sherlock can’t quite follow--there are _hands_ on his _head_ , John’s hands--and Sherlock opens his eyes and is looking up at John.

“Shut your eyes and shut up for a while,” John orders, still in that voice.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and concentrates very hard on not speaking. He compensates by twisting his hands together.

Until he feels John’s fingers in his hair, slow and steady, firm yet gentle. He can hear the telly in the background, and the traffic on the street below. He can feel John’s pulse, the warmth of him through his trousers, and his hands carding through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock sighs. Everything retreats for the span of five heartbeats--he counts them--and then his thoughts start to order themselves of their own accord.

He must make some noise, some sound of wonder, of relief, because John chuckles. “Thought that might help. Talk it out if you need to.”

“No, no,” Sherlock murmurs, a small smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “This is... fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is an attempt at this prompt from marmosette: Cheese, fireplace poker, clover. Go!

“So, cheese on toast then? Via... fireplace poker?” John collapses into his chair and watches Sherlock carefully toast his concoction over the small fire.

It’s fascinating and, ok, yes, somewhat alarming (and more so at times), the man’s concentration. The only reply he gets is a grunt. Typical.

John watches for a few minutes before he decides that he’s hungry as well, and that cheese on toast sounds like a good idea. So he goes into the kitchen... where the toaster oven is in pieces.

Figures.

“Do we have a second fireplace poker?”

“No,” Sherlock calls back. “But I’ll make you a slice as well, if you’d like.”

“Ta.” John fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. Thankfully, Sherlock has put together that dismantling the kettle means John gets no tea, and John with no tea equals unpleasantness for everyone, so he no longer cannibalizes it for parts.

Sherlock has started humming over his campfire. John watches him until the kettle clicks off, and then goes to the fridge to get the milk.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Why the fuck is the fridge filled with clover?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here’s one in response to tygermama, who suggested: during a long night at the lab, John and Molly start bickering over who’s the best Doctor. Sherlock tries to ignore them and fails.

“Really? You cannot possibly be serious, Moll.”

  _So John refers to Molly as ‘Moll’ now? When had that happened? How does John manage to befriend everyone so effortlessly?_

“I am!” Molly insists; that squeak in her voice that always seems to be there when she speaks to Sherlock is non-existent when she addresses John.

_Curious. Is he safe? Is that what it is, John is a safe person, not an object of lust?_

_What does it matter? None of this is important. Pop culture is irrelevant. Delete. Ignore. Will you two please shut up?_

John and Molly both glance at him; _did I say that last out loud?_

“No, I’m sorry Moll, there is no way Eleven is the best doctor. Not even by a long shot. Not even close.”

“Then who, hmm? Are you going to go with Five or Three or Seven? Predictable.” She scoffs over the samples she’s decanting for Sherlock.

John crosses his arms.

_Why are you looking at his arms? Concentrate. This isn’t important._

“Ten.”

Molly stops, looks at John, and then grins. “OK, you have a good point. Ten was pretty awesome.”

“Donna,” John adds.

“Oooooh,” Molly croons. “YES. Donna Noble forever.”

“The Doctor-Donna? I mean, c’mon Moll, that was--I don’t even have words!”

_Concentrate. Ignore them. Unimportant._

He can’t. Sherlock drops his chin to his chest and tries to breathe through it.

“Hey, Moll, let’s take a break. I could do with some tea.” 

“Sure.”

“Go on then, I’ll be out in a second, OK?”

Sherlock listens for the sound of the door shutting, and lifts his head. John is standing right next to him, brow furrowed.

“Alright, then?”

He takes a deep breath, and nods.

“Fifteen minutes enough time?”

Sherlock nods again. John always knows. Always.

“Alright.” John lays his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a brief moment, smiles at him, a soft warm smile that lodges right in the center of Sherlock’s chest and radiates, then turns to go. “We’ll see you in a bit.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> audrey923 gave me: collarbone, siren, rum… :P
> 
> And I give you this.

He hears the blare of the siren at the same time John’s lips press to his collarbone, and Sherlock is certain for a few seconds that the siren is only in his head.

But John pulls back for a moment, breath short, face flushed, and looks up at him, then down to the mouth of the alley. Two police cars speed by, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

“We should go home,” John breathes; the warmth of it across the just-kissed wetness on his collarbone makes him shiver in pleasure.

Sherlock can’t even find words at that moment, so he nods, intent upon John’s lips, John’s breath, John’s scent, John’s body pressed against his. 

After an eternity, pressed together, both trying to catch their breath, debating giving in to the desire to resume snogging, John steps back with a barely suppressed groan.

He takes Sherlock’s hand and starts to lead him towards the street. Sherlock follows, blind to everything but John, who is looking back at him with a grin.

“No more rum shots, Sherlock. I mean it.”

Sherlock nods, then gasps in surprise when John whips him around and presses him against the wall again, leans in, leans up, presses, and murmurs in his ear, “At least, not when we’re not at home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evil introspectivenavelgazer gave me: Popsicles.
> 
> Which I’m pretty sure are called ice lollies in the UK. So that’s what I went with. Ice lollies and retirement.

Two older men sit side by side in a garden in the countryside. The only sounds to be heard are the low buzzing of bees, the rustle of the breeze through the trees, and very distantly the sound of the ocean.

One of those men is tall, his bearing still upright despite advancing years. His hair is dark and greying to a pleasing charcoal color. His eyes are bright and fiercely intelligent. He is listening to the bees, and watching his husband.

His husband, the other man, is a bit shorter, but certainly no less upright in bearing. There is, perhaps, a slight bend to one shoulder. His hair still looks blond, unless you look very closely, then you realize it’s actually gone a grey so pale it’s almost white. His eyes are merry and mischievous. There is a cane at his side, and he is eating an ice lolly.

“I hate it when you eat those things, John,” the taller man grumps. “You get the bees all over-wrought. They don’t know what to do with it.”

John takes a moment away from his frozen treat to lick his lips, tongue ever mobile, and smile at Sherlock.

“You’re a bad loser, Sherlock. Still. I won this fair and square. You’re still shite at poker.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into playing a hand for the last one.” Sherlock harumphs and glares, but he’s watching John like a hawk, like he’s dessert.

John goes back to consuming his sugary frozen treat, and Sherlock continues to watch him for long moments, his gaze growing more and more heated.

“You know,” John says, conversational, casual, “this is why I do this. You know that, right?”

Sherlock leans over and licks an escaping droplet off of John’s thumb. “Of course I know, John. You seduced me with one of these the first time, as well.”

John just grins, slowly finishes his treat.

Sherlock grabs him by the hand as soon as he’s done and drags him back to the house.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for mrbelpitsleg who said: I always rather enjoy drunk!Sherlock.

“John? John!”

John just about falls out of bed flailing to sit up. Sherlock is sat beside him, hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently--still doing so even though John is clearly awake at this point.

“Wha? What? Case?”

Sherlock shakes his head, then slumps over a bit, giggling. John’s eyes widen in horror.

“Oh Christ you’re drunk aren’t you?”

Sherlock has, in the time John has known him (and if we’re counting the time he was off after Moriarty’s network, which John does because it never felt like Sherlock was truly gone, despite the funeral and the grave and the grey, that comes out to several years now), only been drunk in John’s presence twice.

This makes three.

It’s also three AM.

Sherlock nods slowly, looking at John in the semi-dark with huge, watery eyes.

John sits up fully, rubs his hands over his face. “Why?”

“Speri--espermen.” Sherlock stops, takes a deep breath, and says very slowly, “Experiment.”

“In what?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. It’d be a lot more amusing watching him approach normal rates of reaction if it weren’t the middle of the bloody night. He shrugs. “Getting drunk.”

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugs again.

“OK. Then why are you here?”

A third shrug. Sherlock starts picking at the sheets that have got twisted around John’s legs. 

John sighs. “You want to sleep here, don’t you?”

“There might be something under my bed.”

“What the fuck were you drinking that you’ve reverted to adolescence, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Lost track.”

“Oh, Christ,” John mutters. He reaches over and turns on the light, grabs Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s protests are token, at best. John examines him closely.

“Are you going to be sick?”

Sherlock shakes his head as much as he is able with it between John’s hands. He likes it there; his eyes fall shut.

“Have you had any water?”

Another shake. John sighs. “Shit,” he murmurs. Then, “All right. You can stay here. No throwing up, no hogging all the covers, no molesting me in my sleep, and I do not at all want to hear about your hangover in the morning. Got it?”

John’s not surprised. Sherlock has never been capable of actually articulating a need to be close to another person without A LOT of social lubricant. If he’s doing experiments in getting drunk, it’s because he needs a cuddle and can no longer deny it. Not that he’ll ever admit to it, not when he’s actually drunk and certainly not once he’s sober again. 

He will, in fact, probably spend the majority of tomorrow berating John for luring him into John’s bed.

Because he’s Sherlock.

John gets up and goes downstairs while Sherlock slumps over on his bed. He grabs water and paracetemol, a bucket (just in case), and some pyjamas for Sherlock. He grumbles all the way through and back upstairs, where he drags Sherlock back to his feet, forces the water and painkiller on him, instructs him to change, and then climbs back into his bed.

Sherlock follows his orders and then crawls in next to him, snuggling in close with a sigh.

John rolls his eyes and turns off the light.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for middletone, who said: John feels he & Sherlock have nothing in common outside crime scenes. He discovers SH’s love of bees & decides to learn more about them. 
> 
> This one turned out super short.

Usually, Sherlock is the one he asks questions of, when he wants information about some new subject. Often, Sherlock knows more than wikipedia about it; though when he lacks knowledge he is just as spectacular in his ignorance as he can be in his knowledge.

John decides not to rely on the internet for this search, however. He doesn’t want Sherlock to know about it, not yet, and he feels certain that Sherlock checks his internet history--how else would he know to poke fun at John for the porn?

John thinks that they just don’t have all that much in common, beyond corpses and puzzles and adrenaline addictions, and John wants to change that. He has his own interests, medicine and making people feel whole and rugby and awful spy novels (though they’re not quite so interesting since he started bloody living one). And he knows Sherlock has his own esoteric interests, the properties of blood and chemistry and antique investigative methods, and of all things, bees.

So he goes to the library, and he does research on bees. Because Sherlock likes bees, and John wants them to have something to talk about that isn’t death.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> turifer said: Well, this is very silly and fluffy, but—John and Sherlock baking together for Mrs Hudson’s birthday?

“Yeah, but Sherlock, you don’t even cook, let alone bake.”

“What difficulty could there possible be to baking? It’s simply applied chemistry.”

“This is not going to go well.”

“You normally have great faith in me, John.”

“You normally are slightly less likely to set fire to the kitchen, Sherlock.”

* *

“There isn’t a single possible universe wherein that is the correct way to measure flour, John.”

“Shut up, Sherlock, this is the way my mum made chocolate chip cookies, this is the way I make chocolate chip cookies, and they’ll turn out fine. I promise.” And John scrunches up his nose and flicks flour in Sherlock’s general direction.

* *

“Actually, a mixture of butter and sugar is quite pleasing.”

“Stop eating the batter, Sherlock, and start cracking eggs.”

“Is there any tea?” 

“Oh my god now you want tea?” John scrunches his nose and flicks a teaspoon of brown sugar at Sherlock’s head.

* * 

“SHERLOCK STOP EATING THE COOKIES STRAIGHT OUT OF THE OVEN THERE WON’T BE ANY LEFT FOR MRS HUDSON.”

“There’s no need to yell, John. They’re quite good, actually.”

And John scrunches up his nose and throws the spatula at Sherlock’s head.

* * 

Shortly thereafter, both men are stood in front of Mrs Hudson’s door with a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. Sherlock has flour and sugar in his hair (and possibly some egg and shell that are going to be hell to get out) and an impish grin on his face. John had to change his shirt after the incident with the butter/sugar mixture, and holds the card.

Mrs Hudson takes one look at the pair of them when she answers the door and bursts into delighted laughter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, my awesome beta Castiron gave me this prompt: So, how about a ficlet where John Watson meets an out-of-uniform Steve Rogers? Both are just out shopping or something; a Situation happens; both respond; they meet and hit it off. Your choice which city they’re in.
> 
> Which, to be fair, she gave me because I’ve been going ON AND ON about my feels for Steve Rogers of late (no, seriously, i have A LOT of feels when it comes to Steve Rogers), and then we got to talking about how Steve and John would get on in the way of houses on fire, were they to meet. And then I asked her to give me a prompt about it. And here it is; it didn’t turn out quite like I’d thought it would, but still, STEVE AND JOHN WOULD BE THE EPICEST OF EPIC BROS.

“Oh, sorry about that,” John says to the young man he’s just bumped into.

Tourist, clearly. Everything from the bags he’s holding (Selfridge’s, TopMan, H&M, Primark) to the expression on his face (bewildered, enthusiastic, a bit overwhelmed), to the pressed chinos, the button down of which John is immediately jealous (because that is a damn flattering plaid on the man, and they have similar coloring; John could totally pull that off) and leather jacket all scream it at John.

John has picked up a few things from Sherlock, over the years.

“It was probably my fault,” the other man replies with a smile, slightly sheepish. American. Earnest. Adorable.

John’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to find grown men adorable. But there you have it. He can’t help but like this guy immediately; he’s not sure what it is. Possibly part of it is that sheen to him, that newness, the wonder, the sincerity.

Oh, and the clear fact that he’s military. That probably has something to do with it too.

“I’m a little bit lost,” the man continues, still smiling, amused at himself. “Last time I was in London…. Well.”

John smiles at the guy; he seems like a nice kid, and the world just doesn’t seem to make nice kids anymore. He shifts his own bag (Uniqlo [he normally wouldn’t set foot on Oxford St, especially not on a Saturday, but it’s so close to home, and Sherlock had got explosion on his favorite jeans. And possibly acid.]) to his other hand and holds his right hand out to shake. “Former Captain John Watson.”

The blond guy smiles again. “That obvious, huh?”

John shrugs. “Takes one to know one.”

“It does. Captain Steve Rogers. Retired. Um. Sort of.” They shake hands.

“Sort of?”

“Long story. Nice to meet you, John.”

“You too, Steve. Yanno, you look familiar.”

“I get that a lot.”

For a moment, the two men just smile at each other, standing in the crowd on Oxford St.

John shakes himself out of it first. “So, you said you were lost?”

Steve’s smile goes back to sheepish. “Yeah, well. I’m here with someone, and he’s wandered off. He does that. He’s probably… I don’t know. Buying Primark or something. So they’ll stop making the shirt he doesn’t like.”

John laughs. Then, “Wait, seriously?”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah. Unfortunately. He’s… interesting.”

“Sounds a bit like my flatmate.”

——

When the commotion starts, the two men exchange a look. An identical look that startles both of them to see on someone else.

“I left my gun at home,” John mutters.

“I left my shield at the hotel,” Steve replies.

——

“Come on, John!”

John barely catches his gun in time.

“Cap, get the lead out!”

Steve catches the shield the comes flying at him from the sky.

“You’re bloody Captain America?!”

“I’m on vacation!”

——

“So, uh, is he always like that?”

John looks down the street at Sherlock, who is ranting at Tony Stark. Stark looks bemused, and butts in mid-rant to give it right back to Sherlock.

Things devolve from there. The phrase “pissing contest” floats through John’s head. It probably floats through Steve’s too, but he’s too polite to say.

“Yeah,” John replies with a sigh. “I take it that’s the norm for Stark, as well?”

The two soldiers exchange another look, and chuckle.

“Want to go grab a coffee? Chances are they’ll be at it for a while,” John says, watching the two dark-haired men.

“Sure, sounds good,” Steve replies.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following four or so ficlets/chapters are courtesy this meme over on tumblr: http://belovedmuerto.tumblr.com/post/96540749819/send-a-number-or-2-and-a-pairing-and-ill-try-and
> 
> This one is for thetimemoves, who gave me Johnlock, 25 & 49, which are sunlight and coming home.  
> Beware unrepentant fluff/shmoop.

In the early morning hours, every day, Sherlock rolls over with a mumbled protest, when John stirs and starts to leave the bed.

"Don’t go," he always murmurs. "Stay with me."

"You know I can’t, love," John returns, voice low and amused. It’s the only time he calls Sherlock anything other than ‘Sherlock’. "I wish I could."

"You can," Sherlock mumbles, petulant, even as he slips back into sleep. "I need you."

"I know." John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s head, smoothes his hair back, and goes off to do his work.

Every morning, he leaves.

And every evening, after the sun is gone, he comes home to Sherlock.

He comes into the flat, and Sherlock smiles at him. John smiles back, and fills the flat, fills Sherlock’s heart, with the warmth of his sunlight.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one from the tumblr meme.
> 
> This one is for significanceofmoths, who gave me free reign and 39, which is secret admirer.  
> Warnings for teenlock. Or at least teen!John.

Every afternoon when John goes to put his books away and get his rugby kit together for practice, he finds a note.

More specifically, he finds notes. His notes. His chemistry notes, actually.

They’re annotated. 

When it first started, he didn’t find them until he’d got home for the evening, holed up in his room with this headphones on to try and get some studying done, trying to ignore the inevitable dust up going on downstairs.

He looks for them before he even leaves school now. He’s come to look forward to them. They’re one of the brightest spots of his day.

The annotations are mainly corrections. To his math, to his formulae, to just about everything the professor said that day as well as his interpretations of it. But there’s also, very occasionally, a bit of praise. There’s additional information that has saved his bacon in class more than once, and best of all there’s the snarky commentary, on the students, the professors, the school, life in general. It makes John laugh like nothing else in his world.

His secret admirer helps him with his chemistry class. It’s sweet, and ridiculous all at once.

John has his suspicions as to whom it might be, but he hasn’t decided what to do about it. So for now, he’ll let it continue. And he’ll keep his eye on that Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third fill from the tumblr meme.
> 
> This one is for kestrel337, who gave me Lestrade and whomsoever I should choose (sorry, I couldn't make this work with Molly), and 16 & 19, which are broken wings and at the edge.

Mycroft finds him sat at the edge of the building roof, staring out over the skyline of London. His shoulders are hunched and his head hangs low.

He approaches slowly, carefully, although he knows the other man is well aware of him, probably has been since before he even stepped through the door. He sits carefully alongside Lestrade, careful not to brush against him, or against them.

"Are you all right" Mycroft asks, softly, carefully, after several long minutes of silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the city.

Greg shrugs, and then winces. Mycroft reaches for him, and stops himself. There doesn't appear to be anywhere safe to touch him, not right now.  
They sit in silence as the sun sets, as lights begin to blink on all over the city.

Mycroft glances over at Greg frequently, at the careful way he holds himself. He is assessing, as best he can. He assesses Greg's injuries, counts the number of broken primaries that he can see. Just the ones he can see amounts to too many. Lestrade will be a long time healing from this. A very long time indeed.

"We need to get you medical attention, Gregory."

Greg shrugs again, but he leans against Mycroft's shoulder, and Mycroft takes that as a good sign as well as an acquiescence. 

"We don't have to go to hospital, but you need to be looked over."

Greg makes a small noise, but doesn't articulate further.

Mycroft sighs, after a few more silent minutes. "We can go to Baker Street if you insist."

For the first time since he'd sat down beside the man, Greg speaks. "It caused you physical pain to say that, didn't it?"

Mycroft grimaces, and stands without answering. He holds out a hand to Greg.

"Shall we?"

Greg takes his hand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the tumblr ficlets I've actually managed to write for that meme.
> 
> This one is for porcupine-girl, who gave me Johnlock and the numbers 14 & 31, which are first kiss and blame me. This one took me a minute, but I managed to make it fluffy after all. ;)

"I blame you for this."

"Of course you do, John. You always blame me."

John growls at him and stomps up the steps.

If Sherlock watches his mud-covered form ascend the stairs with hungry eyes, well. No one needs to know that, do they?

No one at all.

John is stood in the center of the lounge when Sherlock walks through the door. His head is tipped back, his eyes shut.

Sherlock stops, watching him.

After an interminable, indeterminate amount of time, Sherlock moves again, across the room, into John’s space.

John smells like mud and the Thames. He stinks, and yet, Sherlock still wants to bury himself in him. He stands close, too close, and breathes John in.

Eventually, John raises his head, enough to open his eyes and look up at Sherlock. His pupils are blown wide, and Sherlock finds his own eyes widening.  
Instinctively, impulsively, he closes that last bit of space between them and kisses John.

He pulls back after a moment, too long, not nearly long enough, unsure of his reception.

John smirks up at him, flushed, his pupils no less dilated. “Is this a thing now?”

Sherlock takes a step back, but John grabs him before he can go any further than that single step.

"Is what a thing now? Do be specific, John."

John smirks some more, because he knows Sherlock, and knows his defense mechanisms. Sherlock is happy to be known, for once. And he wants to kiss the smirk off John’s face. So much so that it takes him a moment to register John answering him.

"This, Sherlock. You kissing me when I’m angry with you in a frankly transparent attempt to get me to forget this is all your fault."

"Oh, that." Sherlock considers a moment. "I don’t know, did it work?"

John just snorts and pulls him down into another kiss.


End file.
